Adios Sevilla

Yes, there really is a Barber of Seville. Or Barbers, in this case.

It was a travel day, a day for bidding adios to Sevilla. This historic city now ranks amongst my favorite walking cities. It is a place to stroll, to get lost, to find a new way. It is a marvelous place for a foodie, a nosh here, a coffee there, and then assorted little plates for dinner. 

Our destination for today was a small enclave on the campo outside of the town of Dos Hermanas, the Two Sisters. We had a rendezvous, 11 AM in front of the bullring. How's that for a romantic pickup point? Our host was a friend of mine recently moved to Spain, an old friend of almost two decades. We had not seen each other in several years and now we would meet in Sevilla. The day was full of promise. But before we would meet, there was one more walkabout.

"No one expects the Spanish Inquisition"

The good Spaniards are preparing for Semana Santos, or Holy Week. The week before Easter will see processions of holy relics and statues carried through the streets. Small armies of the pious, dressed in capriote gowns complete with pointy hats, will take to the streets. They will shoulder the huge platforms bearing the local Madonna or Saint. The icons will be carried to the most important church in the town, there to be displayed and blessed. The capriote were originally worn by the unhappy folks arrested during the Spanish Inquisition. The hoods and gowns were later adapted as the dress of flagellants, those who flogged themselves in an act of penance. Today these historic garments are the costume of those who bear the holy statues through the streets to be blessed.

There are even Lego-sized capriote figures for the kiddies. 

Holy Week is yet to come, and we had our own penance to do at the courtyard apartment. When the dishes have to be done, and when regular fairy just isn't strong enough, reach for Ultra Fairy!

Cleaned and packed, we bid adios to our wonderful courtyard. It was a twenty-minute walk through the old city, quite enough with full backpacks. But the sun was shining and the birds were singing.

Bullring, Sevilla

Light and shadow, we threaded our way around the bullring. Many a fine Toro has met his demise here, suffering the final sword-thrust under the hand of the Matador and the Oles! Of the crowd. The blood sport continues, love it or hate it.

The Bulls go in, but they do not come out, at least not drawing the breath of life.

The stern countenance of yet another bronze figure, basking in the bright Sevilla sunshine.

We waited in front of the bullring until a tiny turquoise car appeared, piloted by my friend Tom. Hugs of greeting, laughing at the Spanish version of a bad Fiat, the little Marbella, our chariot. Piling into the diminutive vehicle, we rattled into Sevilla traffic. An intermittent alarm squealed from the dash, piercing the squeaks and rattles of little Marbella. "Not to worry," says Tom, "It does that." Who am I to question? First stop, a Spanish Moto dealer. Tom and I have a shared love of all things two-wheeled, including years of Moto racing. My beautiful wife indulged us while we kicked tires and looked at Moto gear. Back on the road again, we hit the motorway south, heading out into the campo. 

Tom is now a man of property, a Haciendado. He and his lovely Czech wife are the proud owners of a small house in the Isla Menor, a strange enclave outside of the town of Dos Hermanas. I have dubbed the place La Hacienda de las Dos Gnomos. The Ranch of the Two Dwarves.

The namesakes of the Hacienda guard the entrance.

Marbella and the house in the Campo.

The heart of social life in Isla Menor, the Venta Naranjito. The Little Orange.

The afternoon was spent lounging around, smoking on the veranda, and catching up on old times. It was good to sit with an old friend, good to laugh about a rendezvous in the far south of Spain. "Who would have thought?" That was our refrain. The strange twists and turns of intertwined lives had brought us to this tiled patio, thousands of miles and an ocean away from our old homes. 

Dos Hermanas

Night falls, and thoughts turn to food. In Spain, thoughts turn to food late in the evening. The dining hours of the Spanish take some getting used to. Between the hours of about two PM until four PM, most everything shuts up tight. Around six PM, the bars open up, but the kitchens are closed. It is time to drink and talk, time to work up an appetite. The evening meal can't possibly be consumed before eight PM, with many places staying open until midnight. To venture out for dinner at sixish is to be both hungry and disappointed.

Eight-thirty PM and just warming up for another evening of tapas. Even at this late hour, we were the early birds.

It is an oil refinery, that is true. But this is Olive Oil, the life blood of this region.

Olives and oranges, oranges and olives. That is what this area is all about. The huge storage tanks we passed on the way home were filled with olive oil, bound for export around the world. Folks in these parts are proud of their olives, and rightly so. 

The chill of an unseasonably cold spring settled over La Hacienda de las dos Gnomos. We huddled around the few heaters, trying to ward off the chill. Rain squalls swept in, adding damp to the cold. Many houses here do not have heating because it is not widely needed, but this year is an exception. Tom's Spanish neighbors were bitching long and hard about the cold and rain. We would see a good bit more of it on the morrow, but for now we burrowed into our blankets and let sleep wash over us.

From Isla Menor, Spain, it is time to say Ciao for Now!